Neverland Express
by Romie
Summary: A lost boys vignette told from a more adult point of view. Some drug use.


Title: Neverland Express

Author: Romie

Disclaimer: Peter Pan belongs to J.M. Barrie.  That said, it's old enough to be public domain.  If you're interested, you can find the whole novel at: (or at least you could the last time I checked).

Author's Notes:

This is actually the introductory post to an RPG that never got off the ground. It's good enough to stand alone, though.

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The fox meandered across the forest floor, coat caressed by patches of shadow as it picked through thicket and bramble. Behind it, unphased by thorns or dawn darkness, a lanky youth slunk on all fours, almost perfectly mimicking its fluid movements, from the delicate hunch of the shoulders to the slight limp in the left hind leg. The youth looked almost a part of the woods himself, dressed only in fur, leaves, and mud; dirt streaked his face and chest in patterns that couldn't be random but couldn't be planned. If the fox had looked back, it would have seen close-cropped ginger hair and fierce green eyes, but instead it foraged, undisturbed, and let the youth follow.

"Peter!" a child's high-pitched shout rang through the clearing, echoing off limestone cliff faces and splashing across the creek. With a flick of its tail, the fox dived for a thicket while the ginger youth stumbled into a dive roll, ending up splayed in a loose 

sprawl.

"Senility, Harp!" he yelled. "I was foxwalking!"

"Sorry, Peter," Harp replied in the tone of one used to ignoring his older friend's protests. Shifting his weight to his toes, he hopped from rock to rock with complete unconcern. "Thought I'd drum you grub's here, and the twins are eyeing your share." He leapt to a teetering stone collumn, windmilling his arms for balance.

"Bollocks to your grub!" hollered Peter. "I was _foxwalking_!"

"You're the Pan," Harp shrugged, tottering on one foot now.

"That's right!" said Peter. "That's right, by Tinkerbell! Let them have my food! I'll poison their pouches! I'll choke them in their sleep!" He tumbled into a headstand and gnashed his teeth.

"Shee," Harp whistled appreciatively, taking in Peter's obscenely dilated eyes. "You're really flying, aren't you?"

"Whrrrg," growled Peter, kicking his legs 'til he overbalanced. Harp launched himself with a yelp, barrelling into his leader with enough force to wind him. Getting his legs under him, he perched on Peter's chest, staring into his dazed green eyes.

"Mind if I join you?" Harp asked, smiling broadly. Peter cocked his head to one side, face suddenly serious. A long-fingered hand reached up to paw at Harp's blond curls and brush down his cheekbone.

"You have the most beautiful hair," Peter breathed. Harp flickered his tongue across his lips, fighting a blush reflex. The next moment, he found himself on his back, looking up at a puckish grin. Then Peter was gone, crashing through the underbrush with wild whoops and catcalls.

* * *

When Peter burst into the Hideaway, the twins, Bog and Nesser, were dangling a sack of pixie dust over Bowen's head.

"Give!" squealled Bowen, a chubby toddler with little hope of matching the older boys' reach.

"Clap if you believe in fairies," crooned Nesser in a sing-song voice.

"No!" protested Bowen.

"Aw, come on!" said Bog. "Just clap!"

"But I _don't_ believe in fairies!" Bowen wailed.

"Cla-ap," wheedled Nesser.

"Where's my grub," demanded Peter, neatly snatching the sack from the twins' hands.

"Awwww, come on, Pan," said Nesser. "We were just having some fun."

"Where's my grub?" Peter repeated at a higher volume.

"You wouldn't've toothed it," grinned Bog. "It was green."

"You decreeping pirates!" hollered Peter, leaping for the twins at the same time they leapt for him. The three fell to the ground already tusselling; they rolled across the floor to the cheers and applause of the other boys. Elbows flew and grabs were made for ankles and wrists until Nesser suddenly tired of the fight and Bog found himself face down in the dirt with Peter's knee in the small of his back.

"Clap if _you_ believe in fairies," ordered Peter.

"Never!" laughed Bog, still struggling. Peter grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his shoulder blades, grinning like a maniac.

"Never?" he asked, letting more of his weight drop.

"Nnnf," grunted Bog, breath stirring the leaves as it left him.

"Clap?" offered Peter.

"You've got my arm!" said Bog.

"Then you better improvise," said Peter.

At that point, Nesser rejoined the battle with a blood-curdling war whoop, knocking Peter sideways into a patch of ivy. Three minutes later, he had Peter in a headlock while Bog sat on his feet. Five minutes later had _Bog_ in a headlock and Nesser aiming a kick at Peter's stomach. Ten minutes later, the three boys were discussing plans for a new treehouse while one of them nursed a black eye. Bowen waddled over to tug at Peter's arm.

"Dust?" he asked.

"I love you, Bowen," said Peter, retrieving the confiscated sack from his waist pouch and proffering it for general consumption. After Bowen, the twins, and most of the others took their shares, Peter licked his finger and covered it in the white powder. He paused with his hand halfway back to his mouth.

"Wait!" he exclaimed in a terrified voice. All action in the glade stopped, and Wursby looked close to wetting himself. The moment hung heavily; even the birds seemed strangely silent. Peter's face broke into an angelic smile. "Don't forget to think happy thoughts," he sang. Relieved laughter rippled through the lost boys as he rubbed the powder on his gums, eyes fluttering shut with the pleasure of it. Then he was on his feet again, dancing crazily through the woods, food entirely forgotten.

* * *

That evening, Harp found Peter chucking stones at the lake. Peter crowed as soon as Harp came into view, flighting a complex series of birdcalls and whistles at what Harp guessed were the motion-blur tails of the flung rocks.

"When was the last time you slept?" Harp laughed, lifting his feet to swing on a branch.

"Sleep is for Pirates!" Peter hollered, throwing a large stone like a discus. Easily taken by the momentum of the spin, he promptly lost his feet and fell into the lake himself. When he sat up again, shaking his head to fling water from his hair, there was a clear line between the darker skin which had not touched the water and the tawny skin that had. Brow furrowing, Peter began to draw patterns in the dirt on his left arm. Harp suspected a trick at first, but after a few minutes he was too consumed with curiosity to care. He scuttled over to get a better look.

Quick as a starling, Peter's hand leapt out, and Harp found himself sitting in the water next to his smirking leader. With an affronted sqwawk, Harp scrambled out of the lake, aiming a splash at Peter's head just before he reached the riverbank.

"Snot funny," Harp groused, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist.

"Aw, Harp, you know I was just goofing," said a contrite Peter, following him out of the water. Harp huddled against a large rock, looking bedraggled.

"Brought you an opple," he offered grudgingly. Peter beamed, taking Harp's hand in two of his.

"Harp," he declared magnanimously, "you've been a real root today. I think I may give you a kiss."

"Really?" breathed Harp, blue eyes lighting up. Peter nodded, looking properly solemn as he searched his pouch for something appropriate. With a "Ha!" and a flourish, he set an acorn in Harp's waiting hand.

"'s twinkle," Harp sighed, turning the object over and feeling the perfect hole bored through it. He'd find a thong later to tie it around his wrist, but for now he tucked it into his necksack, where he kept his most special treasures. "Thanks."

"Well, you know," shrugged Peter, clapping him on the shoulder, "just like you to know you're noticed." Snorting to hide his blush, Harp flung the apple at Peter's head. Dodging to the side, Peter grabbed it from the air and bit down lustily. Winking, he let himself fall back onto the mossy bank, stretching luxuriously. The next few minutes were filled with only the buzzing of insects and the munching of the apple. One by one, the stars came out.

"Peter," Harp finally asked, "do you believe in Mother?" Peter snorted and shifted irritably, looking annoyed.

"Has Grifter been talking nonsense again?" he asked.

"No," said Harp hesitantly. "Just been thinkin'." Peter clicked his tongue in the back of his mouth.

"Well snuff it. Only babies believe in that stuff."

"Grifter believes, and he isn't a baby," said Harp, fingers clenching earnestly. "And Crimm, and Okk.. ." Peter cut him off brusquely.

"Harp, I've been around a while. A While. If there is a Mother, she's never done anything for me. We're all we got, except maybe Tink, and no knowing where in Hook's balls she's got to." This ended the conversation for several minutes, and in the silence Harp noticed how he shivered in his damp clothes. Harp knew he should drop the subject, but he couldn't stop the words from spilling out of his mouth, sniffling as he said them.

"Crimm thinks that maybe Wendy was sent by Mother and we scared her away." Peter was up in a flash, his arms wrapping around Harp to rock him gently back and forth.

"No," he crooned. "Mother didn't send Wendy; I _got_ Wendy, mender? And the Keepers crooked her away same day we couldn't find the Injuns, or the Pirates. It wasn't us. It wasn't us." Peter peered down into Harp's round face. "Did you think that this whole time?" he asked. Harp nodded; Peter tightened his arms.

"You gonna be brid?" he asked. Harp nodded again.

"Dust?" he offered, and Peter looked relieved. They both partook, (Harp a little more than usual,) and the world became predictably warmer, happier, and more beautiful. Harp did an unsteady jig at the edge of the water, and Peter threw back his head and laughed, just laughed and laughed and laughed. Looking at him with his neck all stretched out, a crazy idea took root in Harp's head and refused to let go. At first it was the kind of little itch that you can push down deep in your spine, but the more Peter laughed the bigger the itch got until it was all Harp could think of. Harp wanted to thimble Peter.

It was A Bad Idea.

Nobody thimbled Peter. _Nobody._ Especially not since Tink left, and especially not _before_ Tink left, and _certainly_ not after Wendy. Nesser had tried once several years ago, high as an egret and dared by Bog. Peter had smiled and then broken his arm. You did _not_ thimble the Pan. Ever.

Harp stumbled over and brushed his lips against Peter's.

Peter broke his arm.


End file.
